


Retrograde

by Lyrial



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s09e16 Blade Runners, Gen, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 02:42:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1370968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyrial/pseuds/Lyrial
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the boys get back to the Bunker from Magnus’s lair, Sam tries to get Dean to make him a promise about the First Blade.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrograde

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before watching episode 17, so things may not exactly gel with stuff that happens in that episode. I'm kinda bummed about getting jossed regarding Dean's attitude towards the Blade (I thought he'd be way less reluctant about using it), but oh well :/ that is the danger of writing fic when canon is still ongoing. Also, I'm not American, so feel free to correct me on any silly mistakes I've made!

When Crowley’s departure leaves them gasping and sagging against the car, Sam’s only thought is _Damn, how could I have been so stupid?_ Distantly, he hears Dean bitching about demons and his precious baby of a car, but all Sam can think about is how they had their chance to end Crowley right there and then and they missed it.

That son of a bitch is gone now, together with the First Blade. Even off his game, Crowley is a sly, conniving bastard—a bastard who practically wrote the textbook on deception and treachery. Sam had been a fool to think that they could have succeeded in betraying him.

It is only after they’re cruising along the interstate, nearly halfway back to the Bunker, that Sam thinks about checking on Dean.

Beside him, Dean is staring intently at the road ahead, hands tight on the steering wheel. He’s got his usual tunes on, blasting away, but the fingers on the steering wheel are still, not tapping along to the beat. Night had fallen by then, and passing headlights illuminate Dean’s face in intervals. Sam catches flashes of Dean’s expression, hard and closed-off. It’s not an unusual expression, these days, but as Sam watches the interweaving of shadow and light play across Dean’s face, the memory of the way Dean lopped off Magnus’s head, the terrible dead-eyed expression on his face, comes back to Sam and he shudders.

Dean, intent on the road, does not notice anything, but Sam looks away nonetheless, an inexplicable fear rising in him. He closes his eyes, pretending to go back to sleep. There is something deeply wrong with Dean, but Sam doesn’t want to deal with it now. He doesn’t want to look at Dean, doesn’t want the reminder of the chillingly distant look in Dean’s eyes as he looked down at the blood-stained blade, full of need and desire. Yet, the images haunt him and he only manages to fall into a troubled sleep, the cuts on his cheek and throat dulling to nothing but distant stings of pain.

 

* * *

 

When they get back to the Bunker, Dean departs for his own room without a word, as is the custom these days. Sam stares at the straight silhouette of his back as he walks away, words on the tip of his tongue to call out to Dean, but then Dean turns a corner and the words die away.

The silence is thick and heavy in the corridor, almost stifling. Sam is left standing there uselessly, staring blankly at the walls. It is only after the thud of a door shutting echoes through the Bunker that Sam starts to move, heading back to his room to wash and dress his wounds, falling into his bed to stare listlessly at the ceiling. When sleep finally comes, Sam’s last thoughts are of Dean and the Blade- and the terrible, ominous feeling that nothing good could come of all this.

 

* * *

 

Sam is no stranger to nightmares.

When he wakes up, gasping as he claws away the last blinders of sleep, Sam takes deep, purposeful breaths to calm the terrible pounding of his heart.

_Only a nightmare,_ he tells himself, _Only a nightmare._

But his calming mantra does nothing to stop the flash of memories- Dean, chest heaving, standing over the decapitated corpse, Dean looking at the blood-stained blade in his hand, the almost inhuman _want_ that was so nakedly reflected in his eyes. But in his dream, it had been Sam’s head that rolled to a stop at his feet.

Sam slides himself over to the edge of the bed and takes a deep, shuddering breath, dropping his head into his hands. His skin crawls with unease and he feels sick to his stomach.

The story of Cain and Abel, brother against brother. Was this how it was going to end? Sam’s blood on the blade? Sam dead at Dean’s hand?

Sam’s been in this line of business too long to discount myths out of hand.

Sam rubs at his eyes angrily. His wounds itch something terrible and he knows that he’s running on fumes, but he’s too jittery to sleep, jumped up with nerves, and he aches with the need to _do_ something. He pushes himself upright, wobbling only slightly, before shuffling out towards the kitchen to get himself a drink.

The hallways are dark, and around him the Bunker is silent as a tomb. So when Sam enters the kitchen, he is surprised to find that he is not alone.

It appears that Dean has had the exact same idea as him.

Dean is standing by the fridge, beer bottle in hand. He is in the middle of opening the bottle when he freezes at Sam’s footsteps. He spares only one second to glance up at Sam before returning his attention to his beer, as though Sam isn’t even there. The pop of the cap is loud in the silent kitchen, and Sam halts awkwardly at a distance from Dean, unsure how to approach.

The glint of light on glass catches his eye. On the kitchen counter near the fridge, there are a few more bottles partially shielded from view by Dean’s body. Sam can’t see the contents clearly, but he’s willing to bet that they’re all empty.

Sam knows Dean has been drinking more often, he isn’t blind. But to find Dean here, surrounded by the evidence of his downward spiral into drink, sends an unwanted flash of concern through Sam. Dean’s coping mechanisms have always left much to be desired, but this is a new low, even for him.

Dean continues to lean against the kitchen counter, taking occasional swigs from his beer, completely ignoring Sam’s presence. Sam is used to getting the cold shoulder from Dean nowadays, but right now, he needs to talk to Dean. He needs Dean to _listen_.

Sam takes a deep breath, steeling himself. There is no easy way to broach this topic.

“Dean,” he says tentatively, “about what happened in the house, with Magnus—“

Dean’s eyes flash, and he snaps, “ _Now_ you want to talk about it?” He doesn’t even give Sam a chance to reply before saying, voice curt, “Well, there’s nothing to talk about.”

Dean’s features are hard, and the finality in his tone brooks no argument. He turns away from Sam as he takes a long pull from his bottle. His eyes are dark with some terrible emotion, and his jaw is clenched, mouth set in a thin, hard line.

Sam is used to Dean’s moods; he knows how to read the signs. He can see Dean closing himself off, bit by brittle bit, and it pains him to realize that it took him so long to realize just how bad things had gotten.

Oh, Sam had known that Dean was a mess. He had known what his hurtful words had done to Dean. The drinking, the almost suicidal recklessness, the glances when Dean thought Sam wasn’t looking. Sam saw everything. He wasn’t stupid. He had known just what his disavowal of their brotherhood would do to Dean, and yet he had done it anyway. Because it was necessary. Because Dean had to learn to let go before his frightening, unhealthy obsession with Sam got anyone else hurt. Because Dean had hurt him, and he had wanted to hurt someone- to hurt Dean in return.

Sam doesn’t regret what he did, not really, because it had to be done, but sometimes he has… doubts.

And now, Sam is startled to realize that it hurts, to see Dean turning away from him like this. The irony would be amusing, but Sam isn’t in any mood for humour.

_I did this_ , Sam thinks bleakly. _I did it_ , _I finally broke Dean. God… I screwed up._

The dead look in Dean’s eyes, the way he’s fought ever since getting that damned Mark, without care for his life or for the lives of others… it chills Sam just to remember it. And the way Dean had clutched that blade back in the house, the look on his face when Sam shouted at him to let go of it- Sam knows what addiction is like, and it doesn’t look any prettier from the outside.

He steps closer to Dean, ignoring the way Dean’s shoulders stiffen as he moves to stand in front of him, forcing Dean to meet his gaze.

“Dean, the Blade-”

Dean’s eyes darken, and his features twist in anger. His voice is almost a growl. “I told you to drop it, Sammy.”

Sam pretends not to notice the way that Dean’s hand is trembling. His grip around the beer bottle is so tight that the skin around his knuckles is nearly white.

“I can’t do that,” he says, silently pleading for Dean to understand. “That thing isn’t safe, Dean. I saw what it did to you back in Magnus’s house.”

“You were perfectly happy about me using it to kill Crowley,” Dean retorts. There is an ugly expression on his face, something almost like hate, and it is as though a stranger is glaring at him out of Dean’s face. “What, you don’t want to go after him anymore? What about Abaddon? ‘Cause without the Blade, there’s no way in Hell we’re ending that bitch.”

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t use it at all,” Sam says reasonably, “I just think you should be more careful.”

“Hah,” Dean says, bitterness palpable in his tone. “Sure, I’ll be more _careful_.”

“This isn’t something you can just—shrug off, Dean,” Sam insists hotly. “You may not care about your life much anymore, but—“

Dean’s gaze snaps to his, piercing in its intensity. “Since when did _you_ start caring so much about my welfare— or my life? Thought we agreed we were through with all of that.” He laughs humorlessly, and the dark, bitter smile on his face is truly awful to behold.

The lump that forms in Sam’s throat at Dean’s words does nothing to stifle his urge to smack Dean for being a passive-aggressive asshole. If Dean is going to play this card every single time they have an argument, Sam is really going to tear him a new asshole.

“You’re an idiot if you’d think that I’m just gonna let you roll over and die because you’ve got some kind of crazy death wish,” he tells Dean. “Did you even think about the consequences when you accepted Cain’s mark?”

Dean doesn’t even blink, just stares back at him calmly. “Time was kind of an issue at that point. I didn’t have a lot of wiggle room. I did what had to be done.” Dean raises a meaningful eyebrow and says pointedly, “Surely _you_ would appreciate that.”

Sam grits his teeth, irritated. “I want you to promise me that you won’t use the Blade any more than you have to. After we gank Abaddon and Crowley, get rid of it. Toss it back into the Mariana Trench or whatever, I don’t care. Just promise me you’ll get rid of it.”

Dean doesn’t respond. His gaze has fallen to the floor. He stares at it blankly, face devoid of emotion, and Sam doesn’t know what scares him more- the previous fury or this strange, sullen blankness.

“Dean,” he tries.

There is still no response.

“ _Dean!_ ”

Dean’s gaze rises to meet him, faint annoyance evident in the furrowing of his brows. Sam might as well be some kind of gnat buzzing around Dean, irritating but ultimately just a mere annoyance. It’s as though Dean isn’t even here anymore. A yawning chasm is spreading out between them- has been spreading since the day Sam uttered those terrible, hurtful words, words that he knows he can never take back- and with every second Dean is slipping away even more.

Sam doesn’t even know how to reach him anymore and that scares him more than he cares to admit.

“Please, Dean,” he pleads. “Just promise me this, damn you.”

Dean’s face remains frighteningly blank. He could be a statue, for all the emotion that he’s showing. Sam can’t read him, not like this. In this moment, it is not Sam’s brother looking back at him. It’s a stranger wearing his face. Sam feels wrong-footed and helpless, and he doesn’t know quite how to react.

Then, suddenly, Dean breaks the silence. “Alright,” he says gruffly, voice low. His gaze drops away from Sam’s. “Alright. I promise.”

Sam lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Thank you,” he says finally.

Dean only grunts in acknowledgement, not looking at him as he takes a swig from his beer.

Awkward silence falls, and Sam is left to stare at Dean as his brother pointedly ignores his presence. Finally, Sam gives up. “I’ll just- go then,” he says.

Dean doesn’t even look up.

Just before he leaves, Sam pauses at the doorway to glance back at Dean. Dean has sunk into a chair, and he sits slumped, nursing his beer alone in the darkened room. The dim fluorescent light from the single lamp above the table throws his face into sharp relief, casting deep shadows over his face. His skin is sallow, and the dark bags beneath his eyes are ghastly. He looks even worse than some of the shit that he and Sam have put down before.

But far worse than any of that is the look in his eyes.

Dean looks like a man with nothing to lose, a man who has given up on caring anymore. Sam knows Dean has been to some dark places before, but never, he thinks, never anything like this.

Sam knows that this can’t continue. Things will come to a head soon. They will reach a crossroads. There will eventually come a breaking point. And if Dean continues down this path, Sam doesn’t know if anything of the brother he knows will be left when things blow over. Where Dean is going, Sam cannot follow, and he can only hope that when everything ends and the dust has settled, there will be enough pieces of Dean left for him to pick up.

 


End file.
